


All The White Horses

by Incog_Ninja



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Comfort Sex, Consent is Sexy, Cunnilingus, Dean needs a break yo, Dean's got a big ol' gash on his chest, Established Relationship, F/M, Fucking winter man, It's cold outside so they gotta warm each other up, Light Angst, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Reunion Sex, Vaginal Sex, dean's 22 in Mirror In The Sky, do not come at me about John Winchester, fooling around in a hot spring (do not have penetrative sex in any body of water, including swimming pools and hot tubs), mild on the hurt and heavy on the comfort, pretend there was never a Cassie or a Lisa, seasons change, there will be at least 4 installments to this story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-06-29 09:03:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15726231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Incog_Ninja/pseuds/Incog_Ninja
Summary: She is his refuge.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All copyright and trademarked items mentioned herein belong to their respective owners. The remaining content is mine.
> 
> Pretend there was/is no Lisa.

[Winter by Tori Amos](https://youtu.be/_PDlGUdDF8Y) was on heavy rotation during the writing of this here fic.

 

* * *

 

She’s awakened by him keying into her loft.  It’s 1 a.m., and it's subzero and blowing snow. The last time she saw him, she was in her bed, much like she is right now, but he was leaving, it was early morning instead of late at night, and it was June.

“Dean?” she questions. She’s asking if this is really happening, if he’s really there, or if this is just a dream.

His hair’s a little longer and his jaw is covered in scruff. He’s got a split lip and his left hand is wrapped in a makeshift bandage. All of this and as chilled as he surely is from the biting cold, he looks so, so warm.

“Hey,” he says, letting the door swing closed behind him. It’s like he’s moving in slow motion – his chest rising and falling with each deep breath, one hand clutching the strap of his duffle bag, and the fingers of the bandaged hand hanging at his side, deliberately rubbing together as if they themselves are concocting something clever to say. 

She finally rolls out from under the heavy fluff of bedding and quickly shuffles across the bare floor in her socked feet to meet him. He lets his bag slide from his shoulder and drop to the hardwoods before welcoming her into his arms with a hum. 

“Oh, I missed you,” she whispers into his chest as his arms secure her small frame. She can feel his heat underneath the cold that’s seeped into the layers of denim and flannel and Carhartt. She can smell winter laced through his iron and mint and gunpowder scent.

He sighs and hugs her close. “Me too,” he mutters, pressing a kiss then his cheek into the sleep-mussed hair on the crown of her head. “Sorry I didn’t call.” She smells like honey and dreams – dreams that don’t tear at his skin or his mind.

“Don’t be,” she says, turning her head and rising onto her toes to kiss his mouth. “You’re here, that’s all that matters.” She brushes the tip of his nose with her own, and he exhales on a smile. 

He looks the worse for wear. He’s always beat-up when he comes to her, but his eyes are tired and dark, and she can feel the weight of the world that drags him to the ground. She asks if he’s hungry, and he replies quickly, affirmatively, relieved that he didn’t have to ask.

One beer down and cracking another, shoving fork load after fork load of alfredo smothered chicken into his mouth, and Dean’s untethered the last 6-months’ worth of trauma and drama. She doesn’t know Sam and she doesn’t know Cas, but that’s all right with Dean. Her simple nods of understanding, gentle eyes and smile, ground him in a way he hasn't known any other place than as a child in his mother’s kitchen.

“Thanks for lettin’ me crash,” he says as he leans back into the counter and watches her drop a pod into the dishwasher door before starting the machine.

“You know you’re always welcome here,” she says with a small smile. “It’s too cold to sleep alone anyway.” Her smile slides into a smirk, and he huffs a small laugh as he pushes away from the counter and turns to pull her into his body.

He can’t keep his hands off of her. “I need a shower,” he says, the rage inside him subsiding as he brushes his lips along her jaw and drags his hands over her long Jane encased curves. “Then I can properly thank you.”

She sighs and nuzzles into him. “Lemme get it started for you,” she says, reluctantly pulling out of his embrace, his hands following her until they can’t. “I’ll get a fire goin’, too. We’ll get nice and cozy.” She winks, and he grins, watching her disappear into the bathroom.

Dean stretches his long limbs and arches his back. As his joints snap and pop, he groans with the aches and pains. He can hear her turning the water on, her shadow casting across the floor of the open doorway to the bathroom. As he makes his way toward his duffle bag for fresh underwear, he shrugs out of his heavy work shirt and tosses it over the back of the couch.

“Okay,” she says, emerging from the bathroom as it quickly fills with steam. “You’re all set. Use all the hot water.” She smiles and Dean chuckles and nods, squeezing her hand as he trudges past her. She puts her wood-burning stove to good use, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, wondering if she can put him back together this time – she’s not so sure.

As she sets glasses and a decanter of whiskey on the trunk at the foot of her bed she hears the water turning off and the shower door slide open. She arranges her pillows and blankets in a way that will allow them to cozy up to the fire and sip their whiskey. Then Dean appears in the doorway, steam trailing behind him as he exits the bathroom, toweling his wet hair, clad in a pair of boxer shorts.

She’s briefly taken aback by the freshly stitched gash across his chest and the various bruises and abrasions scattered over his torso, arms, and legs. She swallows back a gasp. “How was your shower?” she asks, smiling through the tears that sting her eyes.

“Good.” He nods, exhaustion twisting his voice and hunching his shoulders. “Thanks.” Dean drops the towel to the floor, snatches a pillow from the foot of the bed and tucks it under his head as he collapses into the bedding away from the drinks she’s set up.

“I got us some whiskey,” she offers as she rounds the bed, mimicking his pillow retrieval.

He shakes his head. “I just wanna touch you.” This is why he’s here; he needs _her_. He reaches for her, and she joins him, burrowing into his side. He wraps around her, nuzzling into her sweet scent.

The first time she met him, she was serving him pie. She’d taken over for a fellow festival vendor who had to use the restroom, and if anything was an example of divine intervention, that moment was one. She felt a charge of energy when his hand brushed hers, and his eyes… he was so beautiful and so bereft.

“How long’ve we known each other?” he asks like he’s read her mind. His voice is quiet, and she can hear the overuse that’s worn on him. She can almost hear the tension hissing as it leaks from his body to dissipate into the air.

“Ten years?” she guesses. “Give or take.” She lets him twine their fingers together and rest his cheek on her head. She’ll let him do anything he wants. 

He nods and hums in agreement, his hands slowly wandering, reacquainting themselves with every dip and slant of her body. He closes his eyes and rolls her to her back and slots himself between her thighs, finds her mouth with his and slips his tongue inside slow and lazy.

She lets him take all of his time, reveling in his hands on her skin as he bares it and his warm tongue twisting with hers. He whispers her name and sighs, and she wishes she could take him entirely inside of herself, hide him away from the world so that he didn’t have to keep giving everything to it every day.

“Dean,” she breathes, cradling him in her thighs, muttering the words he needs to hear between kisses. “Take whatever you want, Dean.”

Their first night together was everything she’d wished her real _first time_ had been. He was gentle but sure, he took things slow but didn’t hesitate to do what felt good, and he asked for permission to touch her, taste her, to fuck her. He still does.

“Take it,” she whispers in his ear, and he groans before pushing inside her.

He buries his face in her neck as he moves. His lips brush her skin as he speaks low and quiet. His words are sweet and lush and hot, but he doesn’t make any promises; Dean isn’t a liar.

He rises up on his hands and picks up his pace. She’s so wet with everything he’s said and done since he walked through her door. Every tight, hot slide of him sends shocks of need from where they’re joined – where he’s pounding that need into her – and out to her every extremity.

Dean reaches down and loops one forearm after the other under her legs. He’s breathing so heavy, his ruined chest heaving with it. She grips his wrists and takes everything he gives, lifts her feet to rest on his shoulders and he’s hitting her right where she wants it, right where he wants to.

“ _Ahh_ ,” he breathes, swiveling his hips and making her gasp. “God, I wanna make you come.” He pushes to his knees and drags his hand and hers to slide fingers over her slick clit. “C’mon.”

She nods and presses their joined fingers onto her clit, gasps for air, throws her free arm to the side and thrusts against him. She completely lets herself go with Dean – always. With him is when she feels safest. She knows he’ll catch her when she falls, and she’ll catch him.

When he feels her start to vibrate he grips the headboard and slams into her. She ripples and gasps under him. In seconds he’s coming, too.

He hangs his head and breathes deep, slowly moves to unravel their limbs and settle them both to the bed. He wraps the down comforter around them and runs his hands all over her sweat dampened skin. “Sorry, that was-”

“Sorry?” She snorts a chuckle. “Dean, that was not something to apologize for.”

He smiles and nestles against her jaw. “Just felt like it went quick.”

“It did, but that’s not a bad thing,” she answers, gingerly sliding her hand up over his chest, avoiding his wound. “Should we bandage this?”

If she had a dollar for every time she patched him up…

“Nah, just gotta keep it clean.” He yawns and snuggles into her, making her yawn in return before kissing his tattoo. “I’m gonna take a nap,” he mumbles. “Then I’ll do ya right.”

She shakes her head and sighs, listening to his heartbeat and breathing even into sleep before letting herself follow.

 

* * *

 

Less than two hours later and she’s dragged from sleep by guttural sounds of distress and resistance. Dean’s curled into himself on the edge of the bed with his back to her, sweating and shaking.

She props herself up on her elbow and softly calls his name, counts to ten, then calls to him again. He stops shaking and his coiled frame loosens. She reaches for him and slides a hand along the expanse of his shoulders and down his arm to gather the bunched-up covers, draw into his back, and cover the two of them once more.

He reaches for her hand and brings her fingers to his lips, kissing each one individually. “Woke y’up again,” he rasps just south of a whisper.

She starts to tell him that it’s all right – and it is – but then he’s taking the very tips of her fingers between his lips, lightly swiping each with his tongue. Her breath shakes as she rests her forehead between his shoulder blades.

The things he’s done to her are so uniquely Dean. She can’t imagine being turned on by anyone else tonguing her fingers, but Dean puts his heart and soul into everything he does. Every touch and kiss and lick is intensely erotic. She once came, fully clothed, from just his mouth on her neck.

Once each of her fingers has been given the proper attention, Dean pulls her as he rolls to his back until she’s on top of him. She lets her knees slide to either side of his waist and kisses him. She holds his face in her hands, and he drags fingertips down her spine like he’s counting each vertebra as he goes. 

His hands cup her ass, fingers curling into the flesh and thumbs brushing her hip bones. No matter if he puts her in charge – on top like this – or if he’s got her bent over the back of the Impala as he ruts into her like an animal, he somehow makes her feel delicate, like something to be cherished.

“You feel so good,” she says, pushing back until his hard length is straining against her ass. She drops kisses to his chest and shoulders, avoiding the burning hot strip of stitched skin, and pulls his nipples between her lips, making him arch his back and hiss.

When she pushes up to kneeling and reaches between her legs to grip him in her warm hand, she squeezes and pumps him lightly. His eyes meet hers again, eyelids heavy, as she runs two fingers through her own slick, opening herself up to take him in. As she guides him inside and sinks down onto him, Dean moans her name.

His hands ride the slope from her waist to her hips. He grips her tight, digging his fingers into her soft flesh.“So hot and slick," he whispers, driving up into her.

She presses him down into the bed with one hand on his belly and grips one of his wrists to bring his hand to her breast as she rides him. He treasures ever pull and slide of her, every breathy moan, every ripple of muscle under her skin. He licks his lips, wanting to taste her brine and tang.

“Come up here,” he lifts her, slips from inside her, drags her by her hips until his face is in her cunt. “You always smell like somethin’ to eat.” He licks her long and slow before sliding his thick tongue inside her.

She gasps on a chuckle and grips the headboard, looking down to where his mouth is working her. “That explains a lot.” She can’t remember a time with him when he didn’t go down on her until she was coming on his tongue and lips. She draws a deep breath and closes her eyes, settling into his face. 

“Mmm,” he hums and groans into her, his nose and lips and tongue and chin doing things to her that most men could never dream of. He holds her hips with his hands as she fucks his mouth, sloppy and wet. “So good,” he moans, swiping his tongue from her ass to her clit then pulling that bundle of nerves into his mouth, teasing his tongue over and over it. 

“Dean,” her breath shudders and she shakes above him. “Coming…” She shouts out loud and her body seizes. “Oh, god!”

She’s still gasping for air and clenching around nothing when he pushes inside her. He’s upright and reseated her in his lap, her knees weakly gripping his hips. “Shit, that feels good,” he whispers, his head swaying until he drops his forehead to her shoulder. “Fuck me.”

She reasserts her grip on her headboard and starts to move. He’s hard inside her, but his breath and lips and words are soft on her skin. She rides him long and slow until he’s coming inside her again. He collapses and drags her with him, his body slackening before falling into a deep, sound sleep.

 

* * *

 

She’s awakened one last time by him packing his bag. His hair’s wet and he’s wearing fresh clothes – that blue work shirt that sets off the pink in his freckled cheeks and the soft jewel-tone of his irises. The late morning sun washes over his face as his gaze catches hers, and her heart clenches in her chest at the crinkles bursting at the edges of his smiling eyes.

He stops what he’s doing and lets his gaze wander over her arms and legs twisted in the sheets. Her heart races with want and missing him already. She wants to tell him not to go.

With a quiet sigh, he meets her gaze once again. The narrow doorway that he props open for the few hours he spends with her is now closed tight. “Thank you,” he says, fumbling with the zipper of his bag.

She nods, pulling the covers up to shield herself from the inevitable chill. “Always,” she replies.

He nods before zipping his bag closed and hoisting it over his shoulder. Then he grins wide, and her heart skips a beat.

One day she’ll learn that worrying about him doesn’t do either of them any good; she’ll be satisfied with these all-too-brief moments in time; she won’t cry when he leaves. Today is not that day.

Dean drops his eyes to the floor, and neither of them says a word as he turns to walk out the door and face the cold winter renewed.

 

* * *

 

**If you wanna ramp up the angst a little, check out marksmanfem's brave, tough, and sexy OFC/Dean Do-over fic[We've Got Tonight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15630336), where both Crowley and Chuck are total dicks and Dean is swoony as heck.**


	2. Mirror In The Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean finds his refuge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is 10 years prior to last chapter.

“Just wait here for me,” John says, terse and impatient, and Dean flinches internally. “Go, I dunno, get a beer or some food or somethin’.”

John glances around the park where they stand, and Dean’s gaze follows.

The park is bustling with locals, families, dogs. It’s some kind of festival. The town they’re in is an old mining town, altitude 10,000 feet and still thawing from the winter. But the sun is shining, and the air is warm, so people are out and celebrating.

“See if ya can’t find some girl to talk to,” John says with a wry smile, turning his eyes back to his boy.

John’s benching him. He doesn’t want him on this, and Dean tries to hide that he feels like he’s failed him somehow.

“Ok,” Dean replies, nodding, pulling his standard compliance and shuffling his feet. “Just… be careful, Dad.”

“I will, Son,” John says with a tight smile before leaving Dean alone to explore.

Dean sighs as he turns, looking for a place to go. Nothing really jumps out at him, so he just walks. He passes a booth with a lot of shiny things on strings, catching the afternoon light, glinting cheerfully. Another booth is full of woodworking and tools; the vendor is doing a live demo. He stops at a booth for coffee.

“Black, please,” he says, pulling his wallet from his pocket in search of cash. The woman taking money flirts a bit, smiles nice and easy, and it raises his spirits, makes him feel a little less useless for a while.

“Thanks,” Dean says, lifting his cup and nodding as he wanders away.

He’s taking his first sip when he sees her. Her smile is even brighter, warmer than the high-altitude sun. He watches her laugh and roll her eyes playfully as she hands a festival goer a paper plate with a slice of pie.

 _She couldn’t be more perfect_ , Dean thinks.  _She’s beautiful and handing out pie._

He stands up straighter than he has in days as he waltzes closer to her booth, letting loose the charm he knows gets him so much attention.

Dean hears her lilting voice dance over her words with a gentle laugh. She’s average height, tight curves, and honey blonde hair.  Her eyes are caramel framed with long, thick lashes. Dean just bets she smells like warm sugar.

He watches her interact with the lady she gave the pie to, and his mouth waters, but not necessarily for pie. He’s staring, taking in every inch of her impossibly bronzed, smooth skin that he can see, her long, slim neck, her undulating collarbones, her gently curved arms. Dean wonders what it is that girls do to get that sexy shape to their arms. Not all girls have it.

Then her eyes snag on his, her breath catches momentarily and her lashes flutter. Her cheeks flush pink before she drops her gaze to her feet, breaking their brief connection and stammering over her words to the woman between them.

Dean smiles, bites his lip to keep from laughing; he doesn’t want to embarrass her or himself. He just wants to talk to her, get closer to her. He waits patiently until the lady leaves. When she finally does, it’s like the clouds part, even though it’s not even close to overcast, but the girl is just so…

Dean draws a long, full breath as he steps forward. “Looks good,” he says, holding her eyes, even ducking into her line of sight when she tries to look away. “What’s the special?”

“There’s only one flavor today – strawberry rhubarb,” she answers with a small smile. She does all those sweet things girls do when they’re nervous, all the things he does to girls. She bites her lip and blushes some more. Dean can see her chest rise and fall in a stuttering fashion as she tries to catch her breath.

“It’s really great, even if you don’t like pie,” she continues, fidgeting and straightening things on the wobbly folding table. “Polly’s a genius with baked goods. I mean- that sounds dumb,” she laughs and rolls her eyes. “But you know what I mean, right?”

Her babbling makes Dean grin ear-to-ear. He nods. “I love pie,” he says, and she smiles with a heavy sigh of relief.

Hours later, they’re talking freely and easily in her loft apartment. She’s relaxed into herself and she’s even more beautiful than when he first saw her. Her cadence of speech is slower, languid; her tone is deeper and with a shade of dusk. She uses her hands when she talks about everything, shaping the words in the air as they leave her soft, ruddy lips.

She asks a lot of questions, and Dean tells her everything he can, everything he’s allowed to tell her. He tells her that he and his dad work together, that his brother’s at Stanford, that he himself is really just a grease monkey but it doesn’t bother him. She smiles at that with a gentle tilt of her head.

She’s an artist, a painter. She sometimes likes sculpting. She’s also a yoga instructor and a rock climber. She teaches art at the community center and skiing to kids. She likes to cook.

“I dunno anything about art, but I like this,” Dean says, his fingertips ghosting through the air, hovering over the peaks and valleys she created on the taut canvas. The colors are vibrant then soft, sometimes dark, all in one creation. He thinks that he can maybe see inside her mind a little by looking at them.

“Thank you,” she says, watching him walk the length of the west wall in her loft, surveying each piece intently. She’s perched on the edge of her old wooden desk, one foot on the chair. She looks casual, sipping her beer, picking at the frayed edges of the hole in the knee of her worn jeans.

Dean wants to touch that little freckle on her knee. It’s been teasing him all day.

“Why didn’t you take any of these down to the festival?” Dean asks, turning to face her fully then sauntering toward her, watching her eyes drag down and up his frame. He keeps his pace slow and meandering enough for her to take it all in.

“They felt too… heavy for spring, I guess,” she answers, her brow furrows in though then her lashes doing that gentle flutter as he gets closer.

Dean nods, edges in. “It’s all beautiful, you know that right?” he says, setting his own beer to the side. She sits up a little straighter and her eyes widen. Dean backs off. He turns to lean back against the desk beside her. “You’re good,” he says finally.

“Thanks,” she replies, and they’re quiet for a minute.

Dean worries that he’s made her uncomfortable. He’s a stranger and she invited him into her home. He doesn’t like scaring people, though he knows that he does. Sometimes it’s hard for him to turn off the hunter in him and just chill. He thinks maybe he should go.

“Ever been to a natural hot spring?” she asks suddenly, and Dean blinks.

“Uhh, no,” he answers, hoping her question means she doesn’t want him to leave.

“Well, then, let’s go,” she says, setting her beer aside and pushing away from the desk.

“Wait- like a hot tub?” Dean asks. “I don’t have trunks or anything.”

She grins wide and her golden eyes sparkle. “You don’t wear trunks in a natural hot spring, Dean.” She winks then turns on her flip-flopped toe toward the door. “C’mon, there’s one just about a quarter mile down the road.”

~~~~~~~

Sulfur.

It permeates the air and lights Dean’s senses like nothing else.

He grabs her arm, maybe a little too tight because she jerks, irritation deeply etched in her brow.

“That smell.” Dean’s breathless. He scans the darkness around them.

She laughs and relaxes into a nod. “Sulfur,” she says. “Well, actually it’s bacteria mixing with the sulfur that makes the smell so rotten-eggy.” Her smile falters when Dean doesn’t relax with her. “It’s ok,” she says, gently wrapping her fingers over his hand where it’s clutched around her bicep. “You’ll get used to it, and it’s good for you.” She nods toward the small, steaming pool.

Dean’s on high-alert anyway. “Is that normal?” he asks, trailing behind her, reaching for his Colt .45 and patting his breast pocket for the flask of holy water. “Is the smell always this strong?”

“Mmhmm,” she answers, kicking her flip flops aside and stepping up onto a boulder. “Sometimes it’s stronger.” She spins and looks down at him. “You better hurry up. You’re wearing way more layers than I am.”

She shrugs out of her heavy, hooded wool cardigan and quickly unfastens her jeans. Dean watches dumbly as she bares her tan, shapely thighs, knees, and calves. Her jeans fly past his head and she giggles before whipping her bright white bra top over her head. For a second there, Dean can’t breathe.

“Are you coming?” she asks quietly, slowly shimmying out of her shiny satin panties. “I promise I won’t bite.” She rolls her eyes at her own joke.

Dean looks around one more time and cognitively balances his want for this girl and his instincts to keep them safe before climbing up onto the boulder to join her. He’ll keep the Colt within reach, keep his senses sharp. But he  _needs_  this moment with this girl, so he takes the leap.

“What if I want you to?” he asks, standing closer to her than he has yet, spreading that lady-killer smile he knows always does the trick. She’s completely nude and vulnerable, but bold and so sweet.

“You just have to ask,” she answers, gripping the lapels of his leather jacket and pulling him in for a kiss.

Dean lets her find her way around, lets her taste all the dips and swells of his mouth and lips, lets her hands roam his chest and hips and around his back. He holds her face in his hands and deepens the kiss. Then she finds his gun.

“Whoa,” she whispers, pulling her hands back around to the front, blushing pink again. She chuckles a little but goes right back to kissing him.

He huffs a small laugh against her lips. “Doesn’t bother you?” he asks, dropping his arm so he can shimmy out of his coat. He keeps a hand on her at all times, though, her face and neck. He wants more, but they aren’t quite on an even playing field yet.

“Rural mountain girl here, Dean,” she says, nipping at his lips and pulling his hand to her breast, giving him a little more latitude. “I’m used to guns.” She pulls his bottom lip between her teeth as she works on his belt. “You’re still too-” She yanks his button fly open with a small grunt. “I need you naked,” she says.

Dean laughs, grabs his .45 and holds her head in his hand, cups her jaw, for one long kiss before pulling away. He crouches to set his gun aside, close to the pool, and unlace his boots then makes quick work of both of his shirts at once.

He stands and grins down at her, reaches for her hand, they make their way into the pool.

~~~~~~~

The water is hot and a little bit slimy. Dean’s not so sure he likes it, but he does like the way she feels wrapped around him, rubbing herself over his belly. He’s hard against her pert little ass, sliding along the crack just right.

He wants to plow into her, feel that smooth, tight grip, hear her sighs and grunts, make her come. But he just kisses her and touches her, lets the water bubble and swirl around them. He holds her against him, his hands wandering not too far.

She pulls out of the kiss to catch her breath, looks up at the sky. The black night is awash with a spray of stars. The Milky Way. They can see the fucking Milky Way from here.

“What’s your favorite constellation?” she asks, looking back into his eyes, eager and bright.

Dean shakes his head. It’s the weirdest question anyone’s ever asked him. “My favorite? I don’t even…” He chuckles. “I don’t think I’d know what I was lookin’ at if you showed me.”

And she does. She shows him all the constellations, tells him what they mean. Her fingers stroke his skin and push into his hair, and she unwraps and re-wraps her legs around his waist as they float in the bubbling heat. Not that he pays much attention to the constellations themselves because he can’t take his eyes off her, how she loves what she’s talking about, how happy it makes her, how her eyes just  _dance_.

“I like The Seven Sisters,” she says, her gaze dropping from his eyes to his lips and rising back up again. She pauses then rests three fingers over his bottom lip, licks her own bottom lip. “The Pleiades,” she whispers, darting her eyes to meet his again.

Dean can’t breathe right. He holds her close and his thumbs brush her skin. He thinks about each singular sensation to help him stay stable, help him get his breath back under control as the motion of the water gently sways them together.

“Kiss me again?” she asks, her lips so close.

And he does.

~~~~~~~

They make it back to her loft, wet and shivering, laughing, touching and kissing. Their clothes are damp because she didn’t think to take towels for them to dry off before getting dressed again.

“Sorry I forgot towels,” she says, arching her neck for him, working his pants open. He pushes the dampened sweater from her shoulders, drops his open mouth to her neck and tastes the minerals, salty and sooty on her skin. His lips graze her collarbones as he kicks his unlaced logger boots off. “We should shower,” she sighs.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Get warmed up and…” He claims her lips, licks inside her mouth and she moans. “Soaped up,” he says, standing tall and pulling her top off, cradling her rib cage in his hands, brushing his thumbs inward just under her breasts. He presses wet kisses to the flat of her breast bone, doing his level best not to move too fast.

She juts her breasts into his face. “Dean, please.” She guides his head to her soft mounds of flesh, and Dean sighs with relief. He slowly, gently takes one nipple between his lips as he slides a hand up to cup her other breast, swipes his thumb over the already stiff nipple, and she hisses. “Yes,” she gasps.

She takes the lead and gets them both the rest of the way naked, walks Dean backward, guiding him toward her bathroom. She turns the shower on hot, but not as hot as the springs, and drags him in with her.

Once they’re under the hot spray of water, she drops her hand between his thighs and strokes upward with the back of it before finally wrapping her fingers around his aching length.

“Fuck,” he breathes, plants a hand beside her head against the stone wall. He lets his forehead follow in time to the other side, and she’s partially caged in. He’s careful not to crowd her, but  _holy shit_  her hand feels good.

“I want you to come,” she whispers in his ear, pulls him closer so she’s pumping him against the soft slope of her belly. “Come on me.” She’s hunched under him a little, so she’s looking up into his face as his head is bowed.

“Shit, now?” he gasps, trying to hold onto his manliness yet not really, truly caring. He wants what she wants.

“Yeah, just…” she twists her hand and lunges forward to take his nipple between her teeth. And that does it – he’s coming thick and fast over her fist and smooth skin.

His breath shakes as her hands relax and caress him. “Your turn,” he says, pushing a knee between her thighs and his hand up into her wet hair. He kisses her, ravenous for her sounds and her skin. Then his fingers drag down and down and slide between her folds. “Okay?” he asks, catching her eyes in the tight space between them.

She nods.

“Yeah?” he asks again, cupping her with his whole hand.

“Yeah,” she breathes, nodding. “Yes.”

Dean takes her mouth again, pushes his long middle finger inside her, and groans. “So smooth and tight,” he whispers, pulling gently at the hair in his other hand to move her where he wants her.

She lifts her leg and rests her foot on the stone bench beside them. Dean takes the cue and pushes a second finger inside her, grinds the heel of his hand over the mound of flesh surrounding her clit. He curls his fingers and pumps, squeezing her tight.

“Oh,  _fuck_ , Dean,” she shouts and bucks against him, her nails digging into his shoulder, and in seconds he can feel her fiercely clamping around his fingers.

He moves in slow, pulls his fingers from her body, rests his hands on her hips, holding her in place and kissing her deep and long. She’s still gasping for air as he trails kisses over her jaw and down her neck, licks at her throat and collarbones.

She places her hands on his chest, runs them down and around. She hasn’t really stopped touching him, and Dean likes that – just touching and feeling, kissing. The coming part is great, too, but everything that leads up to it gives him such a rush.

“Water’s gonna be cold soon,” she says. “And fast – old pipes.” She laughs a little, and Dean grins nipping at her lips.

“C’mon,” he says, simultaneously twisting the knobs to off and bringing her with him.

Outside the shower, he finds a towel for himself and a fluffy robe for her. He hands her the robe, and she wraps up in it, ties the sash around her waist and nuzzles into the thick fabric. “Didn’t really do a lot of soaping up,” she says, suddenly bashful, burying her hands in her pockets.

Dean knows what that feels like after you come and you feel like maybe you missed something, or someone has regrets, but he doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with her or with him being with her. So, he moves in to kiss away her concerns. When he pulls back, her eyelids flutter so pretty, and she sighs.

“I wanna lay down with you,” he says, and her eyes pop open.

She looks into him. “Are you tired?” she asks.

“No,” Dean laughs and cups her jaw. “I just wanna look at you and see you, what you look like all…” He breathes in and out and watches her pupils blow wide. “I just wanna make you come all night.”

She grins as he backs her out of the bathroom, much like she backed him into it. He kisses her the whole way.

Her bed’s in the main living area and he doesn’t stop walking until they’re there. He smirks before securing his hands around her waist, lifting her, and tossing her to the mattress. She bounces in the middle and laughs, her robe splaying around her.

Dean discards of the towel and climbs onto the bed with her. “Lose the robe, sweetheart, we got shit to do.”

~~~~~~~

It’s quiet and still. The sun isn’t quite up over the ridge just yet. The morning air whispering through the partially open window is cool but it tells secrets of the warm day to come.

Dean doesn’t want to disturb her. They fucked and talked and fucked some more, well into the early morning. He’s only had an hour of sleep himself, and he knows from the late-night conversations that she has a big day ahead.

She’s teaching at the community center today and it’s a challenge for her because most of her students don’t have the money to be there, they’re on community scholarship. Most of them feel like they don’t belong, and that challenges her. When she teaches at the community center, it takes a lot of her energy.

Once he’s dressed, he tries to be so soft as he sits on the edge of the bed. If she were anyone else – and Dean still doesn’t know what makes her so different – he’d leave a note, kiss her goodbye, and duck out as discreetly as possible. But she isn’t.

He dips in for a kiss to her temple. He holds it there, brushes back and forth lightly, and she moves.

“Hey,” she whispers, her voice rough from little sleep. She rolls to her back and grips his offered hand.

“Hey,” he replies. “My dad called, I gotta meet him in Aspen.” He pushes her hair out of her face and strokes her cheek. He doesn’t want to leave.

She looks puzzled. “Do you have a car?” She toys with his fingers and it sends little shivers up his forearm.

“Yeah,” he lies. He’ll steal one. He knows it’s a drive that taxis don’t take this time of year. “All good.” He smiles.

She slips him a wry smile.

At some point between fucking her into her kitchen island and eating the best Swedish meatballs of his life, he told her what he did – that he and his dad and his brother hunt and kill ghosts and monsters and demons. She took it as easily as she took the .45 tucked against his back.

“Be careful, Dean,” she says with regret and longing in her eyes like he’s never seen.

She makes him feel valuable and loved. He hasn’t felt that, not really, since he was just a kid.

“Always,” he says, dropping a kiss to her lips. “I left my number over there.” He nods to her nightstand before kissing her again. “Ya know, if you wanna call me sometime.”

“You may regret that,” she says, and they both chuckle, kiss back and forth.

After only a few moments, Dean reluctantly pulls away, stands up, squeezes her hand and releases it, then turns to walk to the door.

“Bye,” she says, burrowing into her comforter, looking so temptingly cozy and warm.

Dean smiles. He’s tired but so satisfied. She’s the best thing he’s ever had, even if it is only for one night. “See ya,” he says before turning and walking out her door.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my glitches, marksmanfem and Glass_Jacket, because I'd never post anything if it weren't for them.


End file.
